The Confessor
by Imadra Blue
Summary: It's all Squalo's fault that Yamamoto has to run his father's sushi restaurant for the day. Not that anyone but his priest will ever hear him confess such a thing.  Slash.


**Pairing:** Squalo/Yamamoto **  
><strong>**Disclaimer:**_Katekyō Hitman Reborn!_ and all its characters are property of Amano Akira. No copyright infringement is intended.  
><strong>Notes:<strong> Written for Misura's request.

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It was all Superbi's fault, of course. Not that he was about to admit that-even if his sainted mother rose from the dead, forced him to stand on a tower of bibles, and demanded he tell the truth before God and man, he would clutch his rosary and profess his innocence. That was the first thing you learned in the mafia: confess only to your priest. The priest, at least, had taken vows before God to keep your secrets. But more importantly, the expressions on most priests' faces when they left the confessional box were priceless. Better than a comedy club.

The problem began that morning, when Superbi poked Yamamoto and demanded wake-up-and-suffer-without-the-mouthwash-because-I'm-horny sex. Yamamoto proved more than willing, and he took his time as usual. Normally that would not have been a problem, but that morning they were supposed to help Yamamoto's father out with Takezushi. Proving that being a sucker was inheritable through the male line, Yamamoto's father had allowed both of his sushi assistants to take vacation at the same time. Yamamoto offered to help, ever the model son. Except in this instance.

Due to their tardiness, Yamamoto's father began all the preparations without them, but in his hurry, he spilled dried rice all over the floor. It turned out that walking over tiled floors covered in rice did not improve one's coordination and offered a rough way to improve one's flexibility. When Yamamoto's father skidded on the rice and fell, he managed to perform a perfect split worthy of a ballerina. Unfortunately, that perfect split cost him a healthy groin muscle. The hospital insisted he would live, but Superbi still winced at the thought. He could stand blood, gore, and any amount of violence—except a groin pull. Cutting someone was entirely different from yanking muscles in the most tender and precious spots of a man. Superbi himself made sure the elder Yamamoto laid in his bed with all the ice packs and pain pills he could ever want. He liked to think of it as an act of charity—even his sainted mother would approve.

Despite that Takezushi was down one sushi master, its customers did not appear deterred from dining. All at once, too, the sadistic bastards. Even with the help of his bird and his dog—the use of which Superbi suspected might be in violation of a few restaurant health codes—Yamamoto seemed overwhelmed by the number of people demanding his father's special nigiri platter. He gamely made each one, but the orders piled up faster than the nigiri.

After an hour of sitting in the kitchen, reading _Swords Ahoy!_ and watching Yamamoto descend into a sushi-powered frenzy, Superbi finally took pity on him. Perhaps it was that old sense of Catholic guilt so well-ingrained into Superbi by his sainted mother. Not that he would that it was his fault (outside the confessional box).

"Would you like some help?" Superbi asked, turning the page of his magazine.

Yamamoto looked up and considered Superbi with an expression rather like a priest leaving the confessional box. "I—yes, of course."

Superbi put the magazine to the side and stretched. "All right, point me to the things in need of cutting."

Yamamoto grinned and offered Superbi his own slicing station, then laid out various sushi ingredients. "Have at it."

Cutting fish and vegetables was something Superbi suspected he would be naturally good at it, given how many human beings he had cut with his sword. But it turned out that none of the cuts he made with the sushi knife satisfied Yamamoto. Everything was too thick or too thin or not pretty enough. Why it needed to be pretty was beyond Superbi. The people were only going to eat it in a few moments. Yamamoto was insistent on this, however, and soon took back the cutting duties before Superbi "ruined" everything. Superbi was reduced to handing Yamamoto things, not unlike the bird and dog that lived in Yamamoto's box.

"This sucks."

"What sucks?"

Superbi glared at Yamamoto. "You're not letting me cut anything!"

"You're not doing it right."

Before Superbi could retort that there was no wrong way to cut something that was already dead, one of the servers burst into the kitchen, wild-eyed and shaking.

"Three guys with guns just burst in, wanting to know where someone named 'Vongola' is!" the youth cried. He had not wet himself yet, which was something.

Superbi glanced at Yamamoto. "Can I at least cut these assholes?"

"Yes." Yamamoto paused. "But not where the customers can see."

Superbi grinned and twisted his sword onto his cybernetic hand before running out. Before the day was through, he hoped to have a really wild confession for the local priest. When he emerged into the crowded dining room, the thugs took one look at him and fled for their lives, their guns clattering to the floor. His reputation apparently preceded him. The customers only stared. Perhaps it was a testament to the quality of the Yamamoto family's nigiri platter (or simply how weird people in Namimori were), but none left their seats. One even asked the petrified server for more tea.

Superbi snarled at his audience and slinked back into the kitchen. "Voi! They ran!"

Yamamoto smiled. "Good work, Squalo. Thanks."

"And now I have to go back to handing you things, don't I?"

"Yeah, sorry. It has to look right."

Superbi sighed and handed Yamamoto a cucumber, hoping that braver thugs would show up soon, or the priest would not get his wild confession after all. Yamamoto smiled at him and finished another nigiri platter. His short hair scattered across his pale face, and he arched his smooth neck as he bent to his task. Superbi admired where Yamamoto's neck and shoulder met, the perfect place to bite down on during an orgasm. By the time he handed over the third cucumber, Superbi grinned back and thought of another way to give the priest a wild confession.

Yamamoto proved more than willing to help him make the trip to confession worth it, but the customers did complain that it took longer than normal for their nigiri platters to arrive.

_End._


End file.
